Henry's Girls
by Magic Crafter
Summary: Henry VIII's daughters reflect on one another. Mary watches her youth - and her hopes for marriage and happiness - slip away from her. Elizabeth, meanwhile sees a cold woman replacing the loving sister she knew as a small girl. Last chapter up!
1. The Abandoned Princess

**A/N: **I seem to have real trouble with endings...hmm. I wasn't sure how to end this one, so I just…ended it! And I'm debating on whether or not I should continue this farther than one "moment" in their lives. Please R&R and give me your thoughts! Also: _In Dreams_ is **not **dead. This, as well as _You Are Not What You Seem _have only been published recently because I had about half of each already done. I don't quite have the time I want to devote to Chapter 2 of _In Dreams_ yet, so please bear with me and be patient. I know it was a cliffhanger.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything, and I'm certainly not making a profit. Don't sue, please. =]

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_I can't remember when it was me;  
__Me that made you smile, that made you laugh,  
That was your world, your perfect girl…_

- "When It Was Me," _Paula Deanda_

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They had just been informed that they were to have a new stepmother – again. It pained Mary's heart to know that this would be her father's sixth wife. In truth, regardless of how much he had loved Jane Seymour – or even how much _she_ had loved that beautiful, sweet woman – he ought to only have had one: her mother, Catherine of Aragon. That latest Queen, barely even a girl, younger than Mary herself – imagine! – had made a mockery of her title. While Mary had not cared for Katherine Howard, or Kitty as her friends had called her, she still had room in her heart for sympathy. Unlike Mary's first so-called stepmother, Katherine's own cousin, she had simply been too stupid to realize that practically flaunting her adultery would lead her to the block.

Mary believed she had at least heard of the lady now in question. From what she had been told, the woman was a staunch supporter of reforming the new Church of England, which deeply troubled Mary. How could she love a stepmother who was practically a Protestant? Yet she was comforted to hear that she was of age with the new Queen: no longer would she be forced to curtsy to a simpering, idiotic child and write about her as if she was truly "my beloved mother".

As always, however, her sister Elizabeth appeared excited to hear that their father was marrying again. It was also said that Catherine Parr, the lady betrothed to the King, was a true intellectual and hoped to take charge of Elizabeth's education, as well as that of, their younger brother Edward, personally. Elizabeth had always been a precocious child, and would certainly enjoy the challenges the soon-to-be Queen would set for her.

Yes, precocious among any number of other things. If Mary had not known Elizabeth was the child of that witch Anne Boleyn, she doubted she would ever have guessed…at least not by looking at her. Her sister had beautifully thick red hair and though she perhaps resembled Anne a little in her face, she was so like their father at times that even Mary could not doubt Elizabeth's paternity. Even if her mother had been a whore, Elizabeth was a sweet and loving girl, and she deserved to have a father. Mary had known the pain of being ignored by Henry, and knew her little sister must suffer constantly from Henry's changing whims, especially towards her, the daughter of a wife he – and the rest of his family, for that matter, save for little Prince Edward – considered better forgotten.

Something in the back of Mary's mind nagged her as well – this sister of hers could be a rival in years to come. Mary hardly wanted her precious baby brother, the only child of Jane Seymour, Mary's gracious friend and stepmother, to die. Regardless of anyone's wishes, however, Edward was a frail boy. His eldest sister said prayers for him. She found it difficult not to keep in mind that if Edward were to meet such a fate, she would be the next in line for the throne.

And that would pit her against Elizabeth. They were both considered bastards by their father, but Mary was sure she would have the support of the people, who had adored Queen Catherine and had disapproved of the split with the Catholic Church. But how would the people view the daughter of the Great Whore if Mary ever became Queen?

Quite often Mary fretted about her father's soul. What would become of him, after he had disowned her and her mother, married a witch, killed innumerable innocent people, broken with Rome, and destroyed England's monasteries? She said countless prayers for him in Mass, which she attended faithfully several times a day. She also wondered about Elizabeth and Edward's spiritual well-being. Elizabeth, the child of a witch, had been raised on teachings which, in Mary's eyes, bore the taint of Protestantism. Edward, though his mother had been such a good Catholic woman, was being subjected to the same. What of them?

Sometimes, she prayed for herself. Would God punish her for wishing to become Queen, even if it meant her brother must die? How could He, when she was His true servant in England? But God never answered her, and sometimes – only sometimes – she feared that he could not hear her at all.

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The first Christmas court over which Henry and his sixth wife and queen presided was a jolly affair. Elizabeth had just turned ten years old in September. She came to Whitehall basking in her new stepmother's attentions. Jane Seymour had rightfully replaced Elizabeth's mother, Mary noted, and had understandably been reluctant to speak on the behalf of her rival's small daughter. Anne of Cleves' time as Queen had been so short-lived, Elizabeth knew her not as a mother but as a sort of aunt. Kitty Howard had been a child herself, though she had undoubtedly been fond of Elizabeth (and vice-versa). Therefore Mary hardly begrudged her sister the motherly affection she found in Catherine Parr.

Mary watched Elizabeth, as ever, with mixed emotions. The girl was always somewhat subdued in the presence of their father. She had learned by now that he could be extremely loving and at the same time have a violent temper. That temper had turned often enough on Elizabeth, Mary reflected, as often as on herself.

She did love her sister – sometimes she fancied Elizabeth could charm anyone out of their wits. Mary told herself it came from the King and not from Anne Boleyn.

"_Mary!" Elizabeth squealed, running forward happily. They were meeting in her sister's private chambers. She looked as though she had hastily changed out of her dirty and wrinkled traveling clothes, now clad in pale green silk._

_Mary smiled indulgently at her ten-year-old sister, opening her arms to Elizabeth's ginger embrace. She pecked Elizabeth on the cheek and stepped back to examine her. "My, how you've grown, sister! You put me in mind of a weed at times," she murmured, shaking her head with a good-natured little laugh._

_Elizabeth bobbed a curtsy quickly. "I shall be as tall as you, soon!" she sang. "I'm sure I'm a head above Edward by now!"_

_Mary laughed again. Elizabeth could be so petty and yet so brilliant. She didn't pretend to understand. "I have missed you, Elizabeth. Shall we attend Mass this evening together?" She extended the opportunity at every possible occasion to her sister, and Elizabeth always found a way to squirm out of it._

_Sure enough, Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. Her pale, freckled cheeks flamed. "I had rather hoped to see Edward, and our father will want to see me, too…I hope he will," she amended softly._

"_Then we shall go together some other time," Mary replied with a strained smile. "How have you fared at Hatfield? Your tutors must be much harder on you now that His Majesty has married Queen Catherine." What subject could interest Elizabeth more than herself? The child had always been a vain little thing, and only her blatant innocence spared her from being scolded for it. When her mother had been alive, no one had dared. Now, all were too thoroughly charmed to do so._

_Perhaps, too, Elizabeth's skills as an actress had improved as she aged. But Mary knew the truth._

"_Well," Elizabeth said shortly, obviously less eager to remain in the presence of her sister than she'd been at first. Mary would be willing to bet her sister found Edward much better company. As they were of an age, she couldn't blame her much. "I quite enjoy my lessons. Queen Catherine expects much of me. I do not wish to displease her."_

_Suddenly they were interrupted, to learn that Prince Edward had arrived. The seven-year-old had stubbornly demanded to see his sister Elizabeth, and no one was keen on displeasing him, either. Mary kissed Elizabeth's cheek and watched her rush off. She still felt torn between amusement and a less-pleasant emotion to which she could not put a name._

Oh, she was a pretty child, Mary thought with a sigh. Had she been a pretty child once, too? Childhood had been robbed from her, cruelly snatched up by her father's "Great Matter". For all she loved Elizabeth, Mary envied her as well. Their illegitimacy made marriages more difficult to attain, but Elizabeth was still a desirable young daughter of a powerful monarch. She, however, was already twenty-eight, practically a spinster. All because of Anne Boleyn! Though Anne had at least met her rightful fate, she had left behind a girl to remind any potential suitors that she was too old to be a desirable wife.

And Anne had forced her into servitude for her attractive little daughter; Elizabeth had begun life knowing her elder sister as a servant rather than a sibling; a servant, rather than a princess. Elizabeth had snatched away her father's heart – she knew. He called his younger daughter "sweetheart," the way he'd once addressed her. He cried out in pleasure when she spoke to him in French the same way he'd once done with her.

Though they were both the daughters of women Henry felt were better left forgotten, and yet Mary still felt he cared for Elizabeth more. Was it because he'd loved – or thought he'd loved – her mother more, witch though she had been? Or was it, perhaps, that he thought Elizabeth's mind was more pliable? She knew about her mother's death, yes. But she had not even been three years old – Henry probably believed she did not care about Anne's fate as much as Mary cared about Catherine's. And since she could not begin to fathom the way her father's mind worked, Mary didn't bother wondering what Elizabeth really felt – about her mother or about their father.

For that Christmas season, at least, Mary forced aside her misgivings about her pretty, Protestant-minded sister. She tried to forget that she'd once lived in servitude to Elizabeth; that she'd once been beaten upon refusing to call her the Princess of Wales; that Elizabeth's mother had made her life so unbearable…

Henry was very courteous to Mary on Christmas Eve, when she approached him before the court. He lifted her from her curtsy before she'd even really reached the floor, and his fingers had brushed her cheek tenderly. "Mary," he murmured. For a brief moment, her grey eyes met his blue ones.

"Your Majesty," she answered softly, moving away to let Elizabeth approach. Her sister was certainly a picture in her heavy green silk and with a holly bough woven through her long red curls. She grinned amiably at Mary as she passed by, and Mary smiled in return. This Christmas would be a good one. They'd be a happy family. Mary therefore tried to think kind, Godly thoughts._ Elizabeth looks like an angel._

Yet it was still with a heavy heart that she watched Henry call out "sweetheart!" Elizabeth hurried forward. "Your Majesty," she chirped, and curtsied to him deeply. Henry stretched out his hand, which Elizabeth kissed. He raised her up by the chin, pinching her cheek and tickling her. Elizabeth beamed at him, clearly thrilled by the attention. Then she leaned forward to give him a chaste little kiss on the cheek as well. "_Joyeux Noël, votre majesté_." Then she glanced at Queen Catherine and sunk into another respectful curtsy. Henry's booming laugh echoed through the hall; the court laughed along with him.

Later on in the evening, his eyes softened as he watched Elizabeth and Edward attempting to dance with one another. The two children stumbled and Edward fell into his sister's arms; they both dissolved into fits of giggles. Mary felt she might cry. After all, even if she sat beside him, somber and silent, was she not also his daughter? Had she not been his little girl once, too?

Mary closed her eyes. Jane Seymour had replaced Anne Boleyn. Jane had, in some way, acted as Elizabeth mother's death just as Anne had been Mary's mother's. But Anne's daughter still flounced happily around the Christmas court, hugging her little brother, Jane's son, as though she would never let go. Why could Mary not allow herself that same carefree forgiveness? If Elizabeth held nothing against Edward, shouldn't she be able to look at her younger sister without always being haunted by memories of the Great Whore?

_But Jane deserved my father's love; she deserved to be a Queen, if anyone did._ Mary reminded herself bitterly. _Anne Boleyn pried my father's heart away from my mother. Anne deserved to die. My mother should still be alive._

So the next morning, Mary walked to Mass with tears in her eyes and memories clouding her brain. She knelt and said her prayers – for herself; for the King and the new Queen, for her little brother, for the souls of her mother and Queen Jane…

And, of course, for Elizabeth.

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**A/N: Elizabeth's POV next!**


	2. The Forgotten Princess

**A/N: **I've edited all but the last bit about Christmas court...so I may take it down and fix it, or decide to just leave it. Elizabeth might be a little like she was portrayed in "Elizabeth I: Red Rose of the House of Tudor"...I _tried_ to get away from that. Also, please tell me if it's worth continuing, or if I should stop while I'm ahead. =] Thanks, guys.

**Disclaimer: **Showtime owns all of it. Don't sue!

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_I could be mean, I could be angry –__  
I could be cold, I could be ruthless –  
You know I could be just like you…_

– "Just Like You,"_ Three Days Grace_

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The Lady Elizabeth took the news that her father intended on marrying yet another woman uneasily. She had had four very different mothers by now, and she was only nine years old.

For two and a half years, she'd been a princess. Her mother had been the Queen of England. And then her father had decided she was a traitor, and he'd cut off her head. Elizabeth knew the story so well by now that, at least to the outside world, it did not affect her in the least.

For two more years, Jane Seymour had been her stepmother; either she had been too young or Jane too bland, but Elizabeth remembered hardly anything about this third wife of her father's. Dimly, she recalled her brother Edward's birth and christening. And she knew her sister Mary, who she'd loved very, very much at the time, had adored Queen Jane. So she could not have been so bad. If she was anything like Edward, surely she was a wonderful woman. Elizabeth loved her little brother even more than she did Mary.

Anne of Cleves hadn't even been her stepmother for a whole year. Any impressions she had of the kindly German princess were not of Anne as a mother at all, but rather as a friend and a sort of aunt.

And then, Kitty Howard, the second Queen Katherine, was her cousin on her mother's side. Elizabeth still got tears in her eyes thinking about the girl who'd been rather like a sister to her. She'd certainly been far more frivolous than Mary would ever be, and delighted in small vanities like jewels and perfumes the way Elizabeth did (or at least, the way she often wished she could.)

What would this new Queen be like, and would she like her? It was said Catherine Parr – _another Catherine! – _was very intelligent, and that she wanted to help Elizabeth make the most of her education. As she quite liked her lessons, and was always eager to impress, this news filled her with hope. Perhaps if she did well enough in the lessons set for her by Katherine, her father would take notice. Perhaps then Papa would not be so angry with her all the time. He would see how very like _him_ she was. Elizabeth felt she was forever trying to prove to him that she was the child who most resembled him, and yet he was so intent on forgetting she existed!

As a daughter of Henry VIII, there were many things – aside from how she felt about gaining yet another stepmother – Elizabeth was unsure of. Her entire future, for example. If she had been a normal princess, her future might have been relatively straightforward. She would have been used as a political pawn, married off to make the most strategic alliance possible. While her father's Privy Council still considered such matters, Elizabeth had been declared bastard when her mother had been executed and therefore her usefulness was considerably diminished. The only possible example she had was her sister Mary…and who would want to live a dreary life like Mary's? Everyone was beginning to say that the king's eldest child would _never_ find a husband.

Mary. Her relationship with her sister was another one of those unsure things in Elizabeth's life. By now, at nine, she understood why Mary found it so difficult to share any kind of bond with her. Catherine of Aragon, Mary's mother, had drilled into her mind the idea that Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth's, was a witch. And then the stubborn girl had been forced into servitude, servitude to her, a witch's daughter.

Sometimes Elizabeth wondered how Mary viewed her back in those days. She had been a baby…harmless, but in possession of all that had once been Mary's, including the love of their father. Yet far away in Elizabeth's memory, she recalled a time when she and Mary had shared a loving bond…

"_Elizabeth, the Queen has given birth to a baby boy," Mary murmured softly in her sister's ear. "His christening is in a few days." She stood up, and Elizabeth felt her small hand being encompassed by Mary's larger one. Her mind buzzed with the news. A baby boy. A brother. She did not yet realize that, if she'd been born a boy, her mother might have lived. Elizabeth wondered what having a brother would be like, and if he would be any fun to play with._

"_What has she named him, Mary?" she asked sleepily, turning big brown eyes up to Mary._

_Her sister smiled. "Edward, after the Queen's brother," she replied. "Come now, Bessie. We should get you to bed." The next thing she knew, Mary's warm arms were wrapped around her, lifting her off the floor and carried to her bedchamber. She snuggled into the embrace; Mary kissed the top of her red-gold head. _

"_I love you, Bessie," Mary whispered._

"_I love you too, Mary," Elizabeth yawned._

So there had been a time like that. Elizabeth vaguely recalled how pretty her sister had been. How her voice had gone soft when she'd called her "Bessie". What had happened to _that_ Mary? Now, she seemed so consumed with her prayers and sorrows. She never had any time for her little sister. Could it be that now, as Elizabeth got older, she began to remind Mary more of her mother? Now that she was not young enough to carry back to bed or to blindly accept the conviction and execution of not only her mother, but poor Kitty Howard, was she less lovable?

Or maybe she hadn't changed at all, and Mary had been doing all the changing for her. She was only twenty-eight…but bitterness had blossomed wickedly inside Mary's soul, transforming her into a pious, tight-lipped, unattractive woman. Some youthful sparkle had been extinguished before Elizabeth's eyes, so that she now dreaded seeing and visiting Mary rather than looking forward to it.

Shortly after returning from the king's wedding celebrations, Elizabeth asked her governess, Kat Champerknowne, her opinion on the matter. Kat sighed.

"I think your sister Mary believes no one loves her. You know that the King is as negligent towards her as he is towards you…she reminds him of her mother, Elizabeth. Catherine of Aragon is someone he would like very much to forget, and Mary makes that impossible. I believe that is her biggest problem, my lady – Mary misses her mother and dwells on her grief too often."

To a nine-year-old, that all sounded very sensible. But it also made Elizabeth just a little angry. "Kat, my father cut my mother's head off and married another woman two weeks later, and_ I_ am not as sour as Mary. Father would very much like to forget _my _mother, too! I barely knew her, but I miss her. Just like Mary."

Kat had only clucked her tongue at her young charge and warned her to be prudent with her words. She reminded Elizabeth never to speak of Anne Boleyn in front of Mary, or anyone else but her for that matter. To do so would be treasonous. The last thing her mother would want, Kat insisted, was for her only daughter to be thrown in the Tower and possibly executed for daring to defend Anne's name. Elizabeth personally felt that if Mary could be sad about her mother's fate all the time, she ought to be able to act the same way. But Mary was twenty-eight and Elizabeth was only nine…and the king had an unpredictable temper.

Elizabeth knew well enough to say nothing about her mother. She had never done so at court, but had a vague memory of questioning Mary about her once. It had been shortly after Queen Jane's death.

_The two sisters were curled up together, this time after the baby Prince's christening. Mary was grim and silent; her face was set. She had her arms around her sister, but it was not the tender, motherly embrace Elizabeth had come to expect from Mary. She thought she understood. Queen Jane's untimely end had turned the whole court upside down. Their father had locked himself in his chambers, and few courtiers or servants had time for the king's three-year-old bastard daughter. She felt sad, too, because now her little brother Edward didn't have a mother. That was something she wouldn't wish on anyone._

_Mary had loved Queen Jane very much, Elizabeth thought, so she must be almost as sad as their papa. But Elizabeth felt sad for a second reason, a different reason. She was thinking about her own mother, who she hadn't seen for two years now. Anne Boleyn was barely there in her memory. She appeared as a rustle of fabric or a piece of a song…sometimes, if Elizabeth thought hard enough, she thought she could hear her mama's voice crying "Your Majesty! Your Majesty!" But even then, she couldn't be sure._

_Despite her very faint recollections, she missed her mother. Queen Jane had made very few attempts to mother her younger stepdaughter, and now that she was dead Mary was the closest thing she had to a mother. _

"_Poor Edward. Now he's just like us, Mary," she murmured into the darkness._

_Her sister's arms stiffened around her. When she replied, her voice was terse. "Yes, it's quite tragic…for all of us. Jane was a wonderful queen. She reminded me of my mother." Mary sighed, a rattling, broken sort of sound that made Elizabeth feel very sorry for her, too._

"_Mary…that was my mother like?"_

_She couldn't resist asking. If Queen Jane was like Mary's mother Catherine of Aragon, surely someone at court resembled hers. But Mary shot up in bed, letting go of her little sister. Elizabeth scrambled to sit up, too. The elder sister clasped the younger's shoulders with a painfully tight grip. Her breathing sounded labored. "Your mother was a very bad woman, Elizabeth. She bewitched our father into treating lots of his people very badly. You must try to be a good girl and learn from her mistakes."_

_Elizabeth couldn't believe it. Her dark eyes welled up with tears, and she whispered, "Yes, Mary." Her sister's voice was so cold and waspish. Had her mother truly been so horrible? Had she been a witch? Mary said she'd bewitched the king. But even if those things were true, how could Mary say such things? She felt sure that she would never use such hateful words to describe _Mary's _mother._

From that day on, Elizabeth had kept Anne all to herself. Mary, she assumed, feared that she'd come to idolize her mother and try to imitate her; Mary wanted her little sister to be much more submissive and pious. At least, that's what Kat hinted at. She felt inclined to believe her governess, who was older and had seen more of life than she had. It was best simply to comply with Mary's wishes when she was around her, and to try and salvage whatever sisterly affection was left between them. Thankfully, Christmas was a time at court when even the king always seemed in a fine mood, and Elizabeth looked forward to seeing her family. She greatly admired the new Queen, and wished very much to please her and prove how greatly she appreciated Catherine's efforts to advance her education. Most of all, though, Elizabeth was itching to reunite with Edward. There was no one dearer to her – or to England, for that matter – than her baby brother.

When they came to Whitehall, she longed to escape the tension of meeting with Mary. At first she'd been pleased to see her sister. Seriousness, however, set in soon after. It infected Mary's manner and tone as soon as she mentioned attending Mass. Edward's demands to see her came as a welcome reprieve. But as she flounced out of the dimly lit chamber, Elizabeth failed to realize the pain and suffering her carefree youth had left behind on her lonely twenty-seven-year-old sister.

The next evening, she waited impatiently as the king greeted his eldest child. Unconsciously, she made herself a promise: that this Christmas, her father's attention would belong to her more often than to Mary. This year, she would try her hardest to be nothing like Anne Boleyn. In her private thoughts, she regarded her mother as something of a martyr. Here and now, however, she was more concerned about her relationship with the king. She scrambled forward and dipped him an enthusiastic curtsy, spoke her prettiest French, and observed, half-satisfied and half-confused, that Mary eyed her resentfully.

Five minutes later, when their father called for music, Edward grabbed Elizabeth's hand. "Bessie," he said imperiously, "dance with me!"

Though they tried hard to follow the true steps of the dance, both children soon had their arms around each other, giggling so hard tears shone in their eyes. Elizabeth spun them around in a slow circle that way. She could hear many of the other dancers laughing, or else commenting on how angelic a sight they were.

All of a sudden, she felt someone tap on her shoulder. Elizabeth whirled around to face none other than King Henry, limping but on the dance floor nonetheless. "Shall we dance, my girl?" he asked, a mischievous flash in his blue eyes. She grinned eagerly, and let go of her brother, who scurried away – not before the king ruffled his curly blonde hair – snickering all the while. But Elizabeth didn't care. She was going to get to dance with her father, a very fine and rare Christmas gift indeed!

She curtsied to him as the music began. "Your Majesty," she added brightly, feeling giddy as his big, warm hands closed over hers. The other dancers left Henry a wide berth. He moved rather slowly but with a loping grace that reminded her of what an aging lion must be like. Even though his leg obviously pained him, Elizabeth thought it was the finest dance she'd ever had. Near the end of it, he leaned down and pulled her into his arms. For a moment, she longed to be small enough to be lifted up and held tightly by him. This embrace, for the time being, was enough. Elizabeth leaned into her father, closing her eyes and breathing in his musky scent. _I hope my mother loved him as much as I do. I hate him sometimes, but I love him more than I could ever hate him…_

He kissed the top of her holly-wreathed head, cupping her cheek tenderly, and murmured, "Sweetheart."

Elizabeth leaned up and kissed his cheek. She prayed this was a breach, a small breach, in the formality demanded by his position. "Papa," she breathed, feeling absurdly cheerful. Over her father's shoulder, however, she caught a glimpse of Mary. Her sister looked stricken, and the candlelight illuminated tear tracks along her cheeks. Elizabeth's stomach dropped sickeningly, and she barely heard when Henry pressed a kiss to her forehead and mumbled, "My Elizabeth." The words meant everything to her a moment before, but now she wanted to fling them at her sister, to share their father's love, to ease Mary's anguish.

When she attended Christmas service the following morning, Elizabeth prayed for the good health of the king and queen and Edward, and for her mother's soul…and she prayed that Mary would, at least this Christmas season, be blessed with joy.

**Please R&R!**


	3. The King is Dead

**A/N: **I took TheLadyTudor's suggestion and moved on to when Henry dies. This will probably be my second-to-last chapter. I'm not sure. But I do still have "In Dreams" to work on, and a new surprise story! =] So hopefully nobody will be too disappointed. And since I have no idea where Mary was living at the time her father died, I just chose one of her typical residences.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything. Showtime owns everything. Including JRM. Lucky them.

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"You got your mama's style,  
But you're yesterday's child."

- "Jaded," _Aerosmith_

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**Palace of Beaulieu, Essex  
January 31, 1547**

"Sir Edward, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Princess Mary Tudor, the eldest daughter of the king, curtsied as she greeted Sir Edward Seymour. He was not at all a welcome guest in her opinion, but she did her very best to be respectful. After all, she'd been exceedingly fond of Edward's sister, Queen Jane. If he shared her blood, surely Edward was not _so _terrible – and besides, he was held in high esteem by the king, being the namesake of the Prince of Wales, Mary's brother. Still, he was undeniably cold and somewhat ruthless. In truth, he reminded her very much of Thomas Boleyn.

Seymour bowed irreverently to her in return. She always had the impression that he held himself above all others and believed his time was not worth wasting on them. "Your Highness, it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that His Majesty the King has been delivered into the Lord's hands."

The words took her by surprise. She pursed her lips and her brows drew together in confusion. And then, very suddenly, Mary realized what he was saying. She gaped at him. "My – my lord?"

Seymour nodded impatiently. "The King is dead," he repeated, as though she were an insolent child.

Mary's mind spun. The king was dead. The mighty King Henry, arguably the most powerful man in all of Europe, dead. Oh yes, she'd known he was suffering from many different illnesses and ailments. But his ill health had never caused her to think that he was near death. It took her several moments more to comprehend the other implication: _I am an orphan._ Surely no one in England _truly _cared for her now, not as her mother and Queen Jane had done. The king's affections may have been fleeting…but he was still her father, and now she was truly alone in the world. She felt the eyes of her ladies boring into her. Did they think she would faint? She was the daughter of Catherine of Aragon! She had to collect her thoughts, be calm, be responsible. Her nine-year-old brother was the King of England!

"Forgive my asking, but…when did…His Majesty die, Sir Edward?"

The man's grey eyes flashed in annoyance, but he answered as cordially as he ever did. "Three days past on the twenty-eighth. Your Highness, pray do not let me rush you, but you are expected in London. Your sister, the Princess Elizabeth, and your brother the King are already on their way." He was clearly not thrilled to be the one charged with delivering the news of Henry's death to his oldest child.

She curtsied again, and then turned her back on Seymour. Her ladies bustled about as Mary gave the orders that they were to pack only what was necessary for a brief stay in London, and that they could send for necessary clothing and other goods later. She knew well enough that Seymour was in a hurry and that it would be best not to keep him waiting. Besides, now she wished very much to get to Whitehall herself.

She did not pretend to believe that many besides the king's children would be devastated that he was dead…certainly not the Queen, who had been more a nurse than a wife to him these past years. _Perhaps that was her good fortune, _Mary thought to herself. She observed the packing with a distant expression, wondering what exactly _she_ felt about it all. Aside from thinking her own misfortune at being orphaned upon the king's death, how ought a daughter of Henry VIII grieve for him? Should she, Mary, abandoned and disowned by her father, grieve for him at all?

A few hours later, Seymour glaring at her and her ladies all the while as if willing them to move faster, they were on the road to London. But those hours weren't enough to make the fact that she was an orphan, and that the king was truly dead, sink in for Mary.

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Whitehall was more somber than Mary ever remembered it, even after Queen Jane's death. No festive and fashionable clothes glittered in the corridors. Many noblemen and women had even put away their jewels out of respect for the king. Seymour led her into the royal chapel. It was as crowded as it had been for Edward's christening. Immediately, however, Mary picked out three familiar faces. The widowed Queen Katherine Parr sat beside Henry's coffin, her eyes properly downcast, a long black veil over her handsome face.

Edward, the new king, lingered nearby. His blue eyes were moist and he appeared to have yet another cold. Mary could make out her brother's thin shoulders through the black doublet he wore. The mourning garb also showcased just how pale Edward was. Rather than worrying for him, she found herself wondering if he might die. If he did, she would become Queen of England. Immediately, Mary reprimanded herself, horrified that she could think such a thing. Queen Jane, her beloved friend and stepmother, had died so that Edward, however fragile, might live. No matter how much she longed to be Queen, wishing him dead was an unforgivable sin. As if he could feel her eyes, Edward's head turned. His face brightened.

"My lady sister!" he called, hurrying towards her.

Mary sank into a deep curtsy. "Your Majesty." She half expected King Henry to be standing over her when she rose, but it was still just Edward, who hugged her with childish enthusiasm as soon as the formalities had been attended to. Closer up, she saw that his eyes were red and swollen. His grief touched her. She herself had yet to shed a tear over their father.

And of course, Elizabeth was there, her red curls subdued by a black French hood, her face as pale and her eyes as pink as their brother's. She raised her chin as Edward went to greet Mary; Mary's eyes met hers over Edward's shoulder.

Her sister was very nearly a woman now, and should Edward ever die, they would be in direct competition for the throne. She felt as though their entire relationship had been leading up to that moment. _We are not sisters, _she thought coolly. _We are enemies. _

She felt, more powerfully than ever, that Anne Boleyn stared back at her through those dark eyes. All that woman's ambition and cruelty shone through in Elizabeth's steady gaze. Hatred welled up in Mary's heart. She vividly remembered all those years she'd suffered at Anne Boleyn's hand. And given how cunning a girl Elizabeth was, only two lives stood in the way of what she must consider _her_ throne.

One life was that of a frail little boy. Mary doubted Elizabeth would do harm to Edward. Still, he was only nine. Who was to say he would ever grow to be a strong, healthy man?

Then there was her life. Anne had ordered her mother poisoned, or perhaps poisoned her through witchcraft and devilry. What prevented Elizabeth from doing the same or at least something similar? She shuddered and released Edward. He drifted away, listless, and Elizabeth approached Mary. She leaned forward and kissed her sister's cheek, but Mary could not find it in her heart to return the gesture.

Disconcerted, her sister stepped back. She curtsied formally. "Mary," she murmured. "This is so sudden…I cannot believe…" Tears welled up in her eyes and she turned away. "I cannot believe Father is gone. And now Edward is king, and he is so frightened! He's barely more than a child!"

_A fine show, _Mary reflected, before another part of her mind said more kindly that Elizabeth was an orphan, as well, and that she had never truly known her mother. Part of her insisted that Elizabeth felt quite as alone as she herself did, and that she was hardly giving credit where credit was due. The cynical point of view came through as the stronger one, however. Anne Boleyn had been a fine actress when she had desired to be as well.

How did she even know Elizabeth was truly their father's daughter? Once, she'd believed she saw Henry within her younger half-sister. As the years had passed, however, she could make out only Anne's traits. She had, after all, slept with those countless men – even her own brother! God alone knew which one of them may have impregnated her; God alone knew whose children had quickened within Anne's womb. If Elizabeth wastruly one of those men's daughter – Mark Smeaton or William Brereton, supposedly such a staunch supporter of her mother, or even (Heaven forbid!) George Boleyn himself – then she had even less of a right to be Queen than Mary believed.

She cleared her throat softly. "Yes, it is a true tragedy. How fares the Queen?"

Elizabeth glanced back towards their stepmother. Tenderness was etched all over her young face. However, Mary saw what her sister likely missed in the midst of her concern. Katherine's eyes were no longer glued to the embroidery in her lap, which lay forgotten, or on the floor, as was befitting a widow, especially a royal widow. Instead, the Dowager Queen was looking across the room, her expression full of longing, at someone behind them. Katherine wouldn't let the body of her late husband, the King of England, grow cold before she turned her attentions elsewhere!

" – quite distraught. But she was very pleased to see Edward and I yesterday…Mary?" She glanced again at the Dowager Queen, frowning.

Mary's face contorted with ill-concealed fury. "I ought to pay my respects to Her Majesty. If you will excuse me, sister." She barely inclined her head to Elizabeth and then quickly moved away, towards Queen Katherine. Katherine's eyes snapped automatically away from whomever it was she'd been staring at. She smiled warmly at her stepdaughter, standing up to embrace her. She set aside her needlework.

Setting her jaw, Mary curtsied shallowly. "Your Majesty."

The Queen was oblivious to her stepdaughter's anger. "My dear Princess Mary, how I've missed you at court!" Her smile faltered a little when she realized Mary was not going to smile in return, but Katherine was courteous enough and regal enough to say nothing about the slight. The embrace the two of them exchanged was stiff and chilly at best.

"Allow me to express my sympathy for your loss, madam," Mary said curtly. "England's loss." Her eyes shot back towards her little brother, who trailed Elizabeth.

It hurt her to know that Edward had been raised by strict Protestant traditions and that the true Church had no chance of being restored in England while he was King. She knew all too well that Queen Jane had staunchly supported her mother's cause, as well as Catholicism, and that Jane would feel the same disappointment she did at seeing her son becoming such a heretic. _If I was queen, _Mary told herself, _I would restore the Church here. I would act as a true granddaughter of Ferdinand and Isabella…_

Someday. Someday, that dream would come true for her.

She loved Edward, but she _had_ to be the Queen of England. Her mother had told her so. She loved Queen Jane, but Jane was dead, and only her conniving brother was left to control Edward as though he was a puppet.

The people would love her. They must. They loved Queen Katherine. They hated Anne Boleyn, the Great Whore who had displaced Katherine and her daughter.

Someday.

* * *

The king's funeral was not attended by his children, as was the custom. But Mary and Elizabeth stood side-by-side, watching the funeral procession move slowly and somberly away. The younger girl reached out to grasp her sister's hand. She could barely control the urge to weep openly for their father's passing, though Mary was certain she had been doing so for days. Was she not weary of the pretense of grief? But she did not immediately pull her hand away from Elizabeth.

It was too late to turn the tide, to assure that Elizabeth would never threaten her rightful inheritance…but she could at least keep her little sister under the impression that nothing was amiss between them. She could at least convince Elizabeth that she was safe.

Mary would have the same upper hand that Anne Boleyn had had: the element of surprise She would fight fire with fire.

Her fingers closed a little more tightly around Elizabeth's. "Take heart, sister," she murmured. "This is a new beginning for you and me."

_Someday, _she repeated to herself, _someday this girl will kneel at my feet. I will teach her the humility her mother never learned. And the Great Whore's daughter will pay the price for her mother's sins. _

Elizabeth sniffled and looked up at Mary, who she was shocked to see stood there in her grave mourning clothes, with a glowing smile plastered on her once-pretty face. Mary simply put an arm around Elizabeth's shoulders and pulled her closer, content with knowing that the girl was, even know, nonplussed and ignorant of Mary's glorious future.

At that moment, the old, vague memory drifted back to her – one of a beautiful, red-haired child and a happy, dark-haired young woman…

"_I love you, Mary."_

"_I love you too, Bessie…"_

She brushed the thought away. That was the past. Innocent, impressionable Bessie was gone. Now, only the ambitious, overly clever Elizabeth, Mary's rival, existed. She steeled herself against those memories, hardened her heart, and willed herself to right the wrongs of her childhood once and for all.

Even if it meant that Elizabeth would be held responsible.


	4. My Papa is Dead

**A/N: **This has only taken me forever, but it is officially the end of _Henry's Girls. _Enjoy it! Thank you to those readers who reviewed and have stuck with this one, hoping for one last installment!

* * *

_No more dreaming like a girl  
So in love with the wrong world._  
- "Blinding," _Florence and the Machine_

**Palace of Enfield, London  
31 January, 1547**

Elizabeth was delighted to see her little brother again. She and Edward had always been close—perhaps ironic, given the fact that their mothers had competed (and Edward's had won) for the same throne—and though sometimes she wondered if she ought to worry for his health, she loved him all the same. Sometimes she thought she would make a better Queen than Edward would a King, yet the decision was their father's to make. He had declared Elizabeth illegitimate, along with Mary; thanks to their dear stepmother the Queen they had been at least restored to the succession (Elizabeth behind Mary, of course) but it was not the same. Part of Elizabeth urged her to be bold. How she longed to defend her mother, that beautiful shadow whom she always came tantalizingly close to remembering clearly. She wanted to demand that her father admit that he had been wrong, that there had been no evidence on which to convict Anne and that, as a result, she was indeed his true daughter.

But it was enough to know that herself; she could not speak the words aloud and hope to be forgiven. She had heard it rumored that the King had not once uttered her mother's name since the day of her death, more than a decade ago now, and even a mention of her was enough to set him in a rage. Did he regret what he did? Elizabeth often wondered...

She was not an unhappy girl, however. She knew she was loved—even by the King, though he often sent her away from court. And especially by her brother. Beloved Edward! He was clever and stubborn and talented, like herself and even a bit like Mary, but he was so very young. It was also rumored that the King was in poor health, and so she could not help but worry. What if their father should die? What then? Edward could not wield his own power yet, and it frightened his sister to think of how many people would try to control him.

For a while, the brother and sister walked together in silence. The gardens had not yet come back to life—it was only January, almost February, after all—but Elizabeth could find beauty in them anyway. She knew in just two months, they would be full of beautiful, delicate flowers. Perhaps by then she would have been sent back to Hatfield...it was difficult to say. In any case, she enjoyed being so near to her brother. Edward could annoy her at times, but more often he was endearing, and not so fragile or sickly to inspire pity in her heart. They could speak Latin or Greek to each other, or they could run about and play like ordinary children. It was a good relationship, one she knew would end someday, and she was not yet willing to let it go.

She did not want Edward to become as distant and formal as Mary. In the past several years, Elizabeth had come to realize that any affection she had been shown by their sister was only for appearances' sake. She knew it was because of who she was—or rather, who her mother had been. It seemed foolish that Mary should condemn her for her parentage when of all of them, Elizabeth resembled her father the _most_, both physically and in her personality, and it would follow that she resembled her mother the least. But when Mary looked at her, did she see through the eyes of Katherine of Aragon and see Anne staring back at her?

"Your Hignesses." Without warning, Edward Seymour, with whom her brother had arrived, stepped into their path. He looked truly grim; Elizabeth's stomach tied itself in knots. She squeezed Edward's hand. "I am afraid that I must bear bad tidings."

Elizabeth glanced at Edward. His face was drained of all color, as though he had pictured this day a thousand times in his mind, and his eyes were very wide. He seemed incapable of speaking, so Elizabeth took charge. She raised her chin, trying to act imperious and collected. "Go on, Sir Edward," she instructed.

Sir Edward's eyes flickered to her for the briefest of moments, and she saw nothing in them but ice. He clearly cared nothing for his nephew's sister. Perhaps that was understandable, considering her mother's family had once been the only thing standing between his and great wealth and power through his sister Jane. Nevertheless, she could not help but wonder if he even cared about Edward, his namesake. Did he see, or miss, Jane when he looked at her only child, or did he see only the potential heights he would reach through the boy someday?

"His Majesty King Henry died three days ago, on the 28th, at Whitehall,"Sir Edward informed them. Elizabeth gasped softly, and Edward looked as though he, too, would like to die. "The King is dead," he repeated. Then, after a pause, he continued: "Long live the King!"

He went down on one knee before Edward, and it took a very long moment for Elizabeth to sink to her knees as well, though she did it more in shock than reverence. She was but thirteen and her father, her protector, was dead! For all his faults, he was the only parent she had ever known, and he was gone. Edward, her beloved brother Edward, was the King of England...and until he was of majority, he would be pushed and pulled by the Seymours and others with no real authority of his own. Before he was married and could found his own line, his sisters were his only heirs...but they were also threats. And...God forbid, what if Edward should die before that time? Then Mary would be Queen. It was enough to make Elizabeth wish to break down and sob from fright and confusion.

"Bessie..." Edward's voice was so small. It quavered. "Uncle...p-please...please stand up..."

Elizabeth knew he needed her support more than he needed her respect. She got to her feet, albeit a little unsteadily. He was staring at her with big, tear-filled eyes, as though begging her to tell him that this was a lie and that their lives were not about to change irreversibly. It was almost more than Elizabeth could bear. Her lip trembled, and she could not keep herself from throwing her arms around Edward. They clung to each other until both were sobbing; for one last moment, they were simply Elizabeth and Edward, sister and brother.

She knew her brother's tears were as much out of fear as grief; but as for Elizabeth herself, she could not help but be devastated. Her father would never call her "his Elizabeth" again; he would never smile and call her "sweetheart," or applaud one of her songs, or thank her for one of her gifts. He would never send her away again because seeing her was too painful.

"Oh Edward," she whispered, hugging him more tightly still, "Edward—it's really true...Papa is dead!"

* * *

Elizabeth stood at her elder sister's side, watching as her father's funeral procession faded into the horizon. It angered her, though she would not say it, that she could not accompany them simply because it broke custom. She had already been robbed of her mother and of the chance to say farewell to her, or even grieve for her. Besides, she was Henry's daughter—his favorite daughter, she suspected. And he...he had been her only parent, all these years. Of course, that was his own fault, but she missed him desperately and he had not been dead such a very long time. She missed knowing that she was secure; she was, after all, the King's daughter, and could be moved up in the succession at the King's pleasure. And if anyone dared to lay a hand on her, regardless of her "bastard" status, well, they risked King Henry's wrath! Now, her nine-year-old brother was the King, and Elizabeth felt anything but secure.

This had, in particular, to do with Mary. This sister whom she had once adored and admired had—and she was not exactly sure when—turned against her with a vengeance.

It was because of her mother, or rather, their mothers.

Mary's mother had been, from all she had heard, a good and pious woman, but also obstinate to the point of insanity...indeed, it was her stubbornness which had put Mary where she was today: a lonely, miserable young woman with little hope of marriage (something Elizabeth did not pity her for, since she herself never desired to enter that supposedly "sacred" institution.)

She did have one thing, however: the upper hand. While Elizabeth hated to think of what should happen if Edward died, it was a possibility. It was one that she felt Mary might actually eagerly anticipate, for she had also heard—from Kat, of course—that Mary's mother had told her over and over again that she had been born to be Queen. But so had Katherine of Aragon, born and bred to be Queen of England, and look what had become of her! Elizabeth's mother had been born to be...be what? The lady of a country manor? A lady-in-waiting? And yet she, too, had become Queen. So why should Mary succeed and Elizabeth should not?

No—Elizabeth's mother had surely never accepted that her daughter was a bastard, either. Surely Anne Boleyn believed just as firmly as her predecessor that _her _little girl would someday be Henry's heir. So, if something should happen to Edward (Elizabeth pursed her lips, praying silently that nothing ever did; she did not desire the crown that badly. Edward was a sweet, smart boy who would surely make a fine King) she felt she had as much right—certainly as much reason—to be Queen as her sister. She knew she was intelligent; she was young and vivacious and she spoke as many languages as fluently as Mary. She had inherited her father's talent for music, although also his temper, and she knew that the English people were fond of her. She was, after all, "King Harry's girl," and she doubted anyone would forget that even now that he was gone.

_Take heart, sister..._

Elizabeth looked up. Mary was speaking to her; she was actually smiling, as though their differences were at last behind them. But by now, she knew better. She could see through her sister's smile and hear the truth in her words: it was a new beginning, indeed. Mary's quest for the throne had suddenly taken on new life, and her little sister was suddenly neither so little nor so harmless, but a true obstacle.

How much of Anne did Mary see beside her at this moment? Did she see any of herself or her own blood? And if it had been the "angelic" Queen Jane who had displaced Mary's mother in their father's heart, would she feel any less enmity towards Edward than she now did towards Elizabeth?

"Yes, you are right...a new beginning." She stopped, and turned her head to look fully at Mary. "I believe our father and dear Queen Jane are very pleased to see Edward upon the throne."

She slipped her fingers out of Mary's and smiled. Mary was smiling, too, but it was an uncertain expression, one which told Elizabeth she was not exactly sure what to say in response. After all, had Mary not been very close to Queen Jane, almost as though she had found a second mother? Was Mary not Edward's own godmother? And yet Elizabeth knew that Mary wanted desperately to take the throne, which was only possible if their brother was to die. Was that not a betrayal of Jane? No—if Elizabeth were Mary, she would not know what to say to such a thing, either.

But if Edward did die—if she should lose her brother, Elizabeth did not see why, someday, she could not be Queen as well.

"Good day, sister. I go to attend the Queen." Elizabeth curtsied as Mary began to stammer an answer. But she was already walking away, away from the death and grief and gloom of losing her father, and back into the warmth of the halls where her father and mother had once roamed...likely together.

How different Elizabeth's life would now be if Anne had lived. How different all their lives would be.

When she reached Katherine's chambers, Elizabeth laid her palm gently against the door before it opened. She imagined her mother's face, the one in the portraits she had seen (though only once or twice), streaked with tears and hidden behind a black veil. She imagined opening the door now and hearing her mother's voice (_Your Majesty! Your Majesty!_ it still cried, ever so faintly, in her memory) crying instead, "My darling!" She imagined the slender Dowager Queen rising to greet her beloved daughter and to share fond reminisces about the late King. These thoughts made Elizabeth smile sadly. They could never be, except in her own imagination, but she would cherish them there, as she cherished all her thoughts about her mother.

Someday, the world would know that Queen Anne Boleyn had been a strong and beautiful woman. Someday they would see that she had been wrongly accused and wrongly executed. Someday they would see her live again in her daughter.

Someday.

"Papa...Mama...I will make you proud," she whispered to the closed door.

And Elizabeth fully intended to make good on that promise.

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